“So is this thing safe to move or what?” he finally asked.
“Please, Captain,” Klondike said from Dreamland Command. “This is going to take a little while. We’ve never seen a real Indian nuke before.”
“You’re not filling me with confidence, Annie.”
“You think you’ve got it tough?” she replied. “Ray Rubeo made the coffee.”
“Pakistanis are using their radio,” Sullivan told Dog. “They’re reporting helicopters and fighters in the area.”
“No points for accuracy,” quipped Englehardt.
“Yes, but at least now we know they have a radio,” said Dog, standing behind the two pilots. “Are they getting a response?”
“Negative.”
“How are we doing down there, Danny?” Dog asked over the Dreamland Command line.
“We have to start checking the circuits to make sure it’s dead,” Danny replied. “Then we can get it out of here.”
“You have an ETA on when you’ll be done?” Dog asked.
“Working on it, Colonel.”
Dog flipped off the mike.
“Paks may be scrambling aircraft from Faisal,” said the airborne radar operator, Sergeant Rager. “Have two contacts coming up. Distant.”
“Types?” asked Englehardt.
“Hmmmph.” Rager adjusted something on his console. The computer identified aircraft at very long range by comparing their radar profiles with information in its library; depending on the distance, the operators used a number of other comparison tools to narrow down the possibilities.
“Old iron,” said Rager finally. “F-6. Pair of them. Bearing…looks like they’re making a beeline for the trucks.”
“Farmers, huh?” said Sullivan, since the F-6 was a Chinese version of the Russian MiG-19 Farmer, a venerable Cold War fighter.
A two-engined successor to the famed MiG-15 of Korean War vintage, the design had proven surprisingly robust. Reverse-engineered and updated by the Chinese, the plane was exported around the world. The Pakistani versions had been retrofitted with Atoll heat-seekers, and could not be taken lightly, especially by a Megafortress flying without Flighthawk escort.
Which was just fine with the
“Scorpions,” Englehardt told Sullivan. The long-range AMRAAM-plus missiles could knock the F-6s out of the air before they got close enough to use their heat-seekers. “I’m going to slide north.”
“Hold your course,” Dog told the pilot. “The Pakistanis are our allies. Let’s see what they’re up to before we start thinking of shooting them down.”
“Yes, sir,” said Englehardt, clearly disappointed.
The final arming circuitry on the Indian nuclear warhead appeared to use a two-stage process, detonating the weapon only after it had traveled for a specified period of time and passed back through a designated altitude. The altimeter had been fried by the T-Rays and crushed in the crash, rendering the warhead inert.
Probably. The weapons people at Dreamland were worried that the nanoswitches that initiated the explosion might have survived the T-wave bombardment and the crash, and could be activated by a stray current. Since they didn’t know enough about the weapon to rule that out, they decided to take further steps to disable it.
“The odds against some sort of accidental explosion are very long,” said Anna Klondike, trying to reassure Danny. “Much worse than hitting the lottery.”
“So are the consequences,” said Danny. “How long will it take to disassemble?”
“We’re still working on what we want to do,” she said. “In the meantime, please treat the weapon as if it were live.”
“You don’t have to worry about that,” said Danny.
A beeping signal indicated that Dog wanted to talk to him, and switched to another channel on the Dreamland network.
“Freah.”
“Danny, we have two Pakistani aircraft approaching from the north. When are you getting out of there?”
“Unknown at this time,” he said, and explained what Klondike had told him.
“This could take a while, Colonel,” added Danny. “The scientists don’t want to make any guesses about the weapon.”
“Nor should they. Bastian out.”
Zen knew that his jury-rigged pup tent wouldn’t be featured in
If he’d had the use of his legs…
The idea was poison. He pushed it away.
The best way to warm up would be to start a fire. He decided he would explore. He made three broadcasts on the emergency channel, close together; when no one responded, he tucked the radio under Breanna’s arm, then bent over and kissed her on the back of her head.
“I’ll be back, baby,” he told her, crawling up the shallow hill behind them to survey their domain.
“Broadcast on all frequencies,” Dog told the
“Ready for you, Colonel.”
“Dreamland EB-52
Dog waited for a response. The Pakistani planes were about 120 miles away, moving at just over 400 knots. That would bring them in range to use their air-to-air missiles in roughly fifteen minutes.
“Nothing, Colonel,” said Sullivan finally.
“Anything from the ground units?”
“Negative.”
“Let’s give it another try,” said Dog.
He repeated his message, again without getting an answer. The Megafortress was flying a lazy-eight pattern over the Marines, riding around and around at 15,000 feet. The Pakistani trucks were at the northeastern end of their racetrack, still sitting in the middle of the road doing nothing.
“We may be out of range of their radios,” suggested Rager from the airborne radar console.
“Maybe,” said Dog.
“Just about in Scorpion range, Colonel,” added Sullivan.
“We can take them,” said Englehardt. “They’ll never know what hit them.”
Dog got up from the auxiliary radar station and walked up to the front of the cockpit, looking over the pilots’ shoulders.
“Open the bomb bay doors,” he said. “Let’s make it easier for them to find us.”
